


light on the floor

by uppityminx



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, POV Female Character, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 01:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21090836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uppityminx/pseuds/uppityminx
Summary: Feeling giddy and guilty, she lets herself think that he might love her a little. [A week after the rally at Père Lachaise, Tina counts their losses.]





	light on the floor

Tina’s dealt with ghosts before, but most of them have been dead. 

There was a great-uncle who passed away when she was still little, her parents only known relative. They had barely known him but shown up at the funeral anyway, her mother tight-lipped and her father solemn (they’d argued earlier over whether to sit shiva for him). Tina dreams of tumbling endlessly into that very grave the same night, waking the next morning to find her great-uncle hiding behind corners and curves and creaky floorboards. He’s gone within a fortnight (perhaps they _ had _ been sitting shiva, in a way).

Then, there’s mama and pop. She senses her parents’ presence in a way that’s caught between wistfulness and comfort. The deep sadness she felt as a girl was eventually to be replaced with a grown-up’s twisted version of acceptance. They linger at her shoulder, manifesting in warm cups of cocoa and worn blankets, but maintain a respectful distance. No haunting necessary, as she thinks of them more often than not.

Her sister, on the other hand, was much more persistent. 

Tina’s mind decides to fill in the gaps that her absence has created. Sounds of light, symphonic chatter flutter around her as she bends to tie her shoes in the morning. A muffled snort of laughter pops in her head when she catches an impressive-looking Ministry official stumbling over his own feet. She vaguely hears the echo of pots and pans, coupled with the croonings of distant late-night radio, as she collapses into bed.

She catches her reflection in a mirror one afternoon, brow furrowed and lips pursed. She feels the trace of fingers teasingly attempt to rub away the creases in her forehead. 

_ You’re gonna look like Red if you work any harder, Teen, _that tiny voice tells her, gentle and concerned. Her chest constricts painfully, something churning in the pit of her stomach, until yet another red alert pulls her away. 

Thankfully, there’s work to be done, enough work to put a lid on personal issues. MACUSA has ordered her to stand ground across the pond and assist the Ministry with the aftermath (and Mercy Lewis, is there an aftermath). Tina throws herself into the chaos with abandon, spending too much time on her own assignments and picking up the slack on others’. She savors this instinct — this methodical tunnel vision, the well-worn career gal mentality. 

Theseus is also methodical in his routine: stalwart and detached at work, the picture of Ministry pride and resilience. 

Drinking his way through firewhisky on his brother’s couch once the clock strikes nine. 

In those late hours, he becomes much chattier — there are things he must tell them, he says. Leta’s favorite flowers, her favorite song, her favorite time of day. How the Sorting Hat had been caught between putting her in Ravenclaw or Slytherin. How she told him she loved him first. 

“You two would’ve been friends,” Theseus murmurs one night, propped up against the sitting room table with a glass dangling between his fingers. His unknotted tie hangs uneasily around his shoulders, his cheeks flushed pink, his hair sticking out at an angle that reminds her very much of another man. As always, he had offered her a drink. As always, she had declined.

“I think so, too,” Tina agrees (although in her heart of hearts, she’s not so sure).

Theseus drinks until it takes him, and Tina cannot bring herself to blame him. This stalwart man, the Ministry’s pride, feels too much. She understands — her work might as well be uncorked and tossed down in a shot, as it leaves her as overwrought as a bottle of spirits would’ve. 

Jacob oftentimes joins him, but the alcohol seems to subdue, rather than invigorate him. Maybe it’s the effects of wizards’ spirits, which are much more quick on his body and cause him to doze off within a couple shots. Whatever the reason, Tina is grateful, for she doesn’t think she could bear to hear things about her sister — the things she’s already been told, hadn’t needed to be told, had never been told. Jacob can’t seem to bear them much, either.

Newt’s there, too, when he can be. 

He’ll gently refuse a drink, nodding at all of Theseus’ declarations for hours on end. Tuck his brother properly on the couch after he’s out for the night. Float Jacob from his position on the armchair into his own bedroom, where the No-Maj had been bunking for the past week (he’d offered it to Tina first, his ears red, but the thought of staying in his room made that same little voice squeal with a bit too much delight, tease her with a bit too much satisfaction.) 

He’s more deliberate with _ her_, she notices at the edges of her tunnel vision. A valiantly-made attempt at a cup of coffee greets her at the breakfast table. A blanket quietly is draped over shoulders as she tends to a mound of paperwork in the late hours, not having realized she’d been shivering. The picture remains unspoken, but lingers between them from the hurried _ good mornings _ to the weary _good nights._

Strangely, Tina thinks of him most outside of these moments — in between breaths taken at work and after they’ve separated for the night, restless and hot in his tiny guest room, he in his case. She runs her hand over the bed cover (a soft, unfussy quilt), wondering if he’d picked it out himself. It’s a bittersweet indulgence to have him occupy her thoughts. 

One of these nights, with a dry throat, she finally wriggles out of bed and tiptoes downstairs. She knows his house well enough by now to make her way down in the dark, feeling for the landmark passageways and doorknobs. When she enters the kitchen, it’s bathed in moonlight. 

Tina pours herself a glass of water, taking it in sips while she looks out the window. There’s usually not much to see, as it faces toward a neighboring apartment, but tonight there’s a warm light glowing from its ground floor. A petite figure, swaying back and forth, seemingly to an inaudible beat.

Then the figure turns slightly, and Tina sees a tiny bundle in its arms. 

Her throat tightens and all at once she is tiny and scared and young, far too young. She recalls the tickle of golden curls against her nose and a shuddering, soft body hardly smaller than hers overflowing on her lap. Tina’s arms clutch the memory of those tangle of limbs, rocking against the dreadful rhythm of its sobs. 

_ It’s okay, it’s okay— _

_ I’ve got you, I’ve got you— _

_ I’ve got you, Qu— _

“Tina?”

Tina’s pulse jumps, alarm jolting through her body as she whips around, fumbling for her absent wand —

_ Oh. _

It’s Newt, lit wand between his teeth.

And Dougal, drowsy in his arms.

“Hi,” Tina manages, a flush creeping up her neck as she realizes how breathless she sounds. Her fight-or-flight response still kicking in, she figures. “Wha—what are you two up to?”

Newt shifts Dougal to one side to remove his wand from his teeth. The demiguise sleepily loops its arms around his neck. “He’s had some trouble sleeping,” Newt explains, his voice kept at a quiet murmur. “I thought we’d take a walk. Tire him out.”

He’s donned his usual suspenders and tweed pants, but a light blue pajama shirt has replaced the bow tie and vest. She imagines him rolling off his makeshift bed in the case, lazily slipping on his trousers as Dougal waits by his feet, as fidgety as a toddler. She hides a smile at the thought.

“Restless sleeper?” she asks. 

“Well...” He averts his eyes, focusing on the top of Dougal’s head. “Due to all the chaos this week, he’s a bit confused by all the...” he limply waves around his free hand in lieu of words. 

“Possible futures?” she fills in. 

“Right. Just overwhelmed, you know.”

Tina shoves down those pesky echoes in her head, that callous and watery heat blurring her vision. She glances down at her feet. “Oh, I do,” she mumbles. 

She looks up again to find his eyes staring back at her — concerned and kind and the most indistinguishable shade of green — and her pulse ricochets to top speed once more, her cheeks burning. She’s suddenly very much aware of the fact that it is the first they’ve been alone, _ truly _alone, since those stolen seconds at the French ministry. 

Newt seems to be aware of this too, for she sees him swallow perceptibly under the light of his wand. He steps toward her, his voice soft as he speaks. “Tina, I—”

But as he moves towards her, she immediately steps back, the small of her back hitting the kitchen counter. Tina understands, has slowly and surely learned the reason behind the hammering heart and easy grins and other embarrassments that have become all too frequent in the past year, pouring over his letters. At first, she’s almost ashamed, tells herself it might be out of boredom. She’s informed otherwise.

_ Don’t fuss about it, Teen! _ The informant tells her, amused. _ You just like him. _

That she does. More than ever. 

_ You’re wonderful, _ she wants to tell him (_has _wanted to tell him since that night in the records room). Instead, she whispers, “It’s late.” Tina becomes friendly with her feet once more as she avoids his gaze. “I better get back to bed.” 

(she nearly cries out in frustration, for there are some instincts that she cannot be thankful for.)

“Oh, r-right.” He sounds _ incomprehensibly _understanding. “Good night, Tina.” 

Tina bids him — _ Newt _, not “Mr. Scamander”— and Dougal good night, and finds, as she crawls back into bed, that she’s almost unbearably sad.

* * *

The next few days pass without much thought, the chaotic but steady rhythm of work keeping Tina’s mind in check.

Then, a full week after the Incident at Père Lachaise, her day is utter hell. There’s a thousand weak leads on top of only a few legitimate ones and an awful episode involving Grindelwald’s followers and some innocent half-bloods. When she and Theseus dejectedly let themselves into the flat just past midnight, he asks her yet again if she’d care for a drink. This time, she would.

At first, they trade silly stories, mainly of their days in school and auror training. Theseus describes being thoroughly whacked in the face by his broom before a Quidditch championship, Tina remembering how she’d hexed a skinny, sour-faced boy in the year above her who’d been sneering at the hand-me-down robes she’d worn to the upper-year holiday dance. At first, their laughter is forced, weighted — then with the help of some liquid warmth, it bursts out of them with ease, their bodies relieved of tense posturing as they relax fully into their respective chairs. Tina’s head lolls back and forth, savoring the temporary serenity.

Then, after a gentle lull in the conversation, Theseus grows serious, a pinch between his brows. “My brother’s infatuated with you,” he informs her quietly, sprawled on the couch he’s fallen asleep on more times than anyone could recall. “I can’t remember the last time he was infatuated with anything on two legs.” 

_ Frank, _she thinks lazily to herself. By this time, Tina’s had nearly three glasses of elf-made wine, and she’s not sure whether her impulse to grin bubbles from her light head or the insistent, pleasant warmth that blooms in her chest when she thinks of Newt. She’s well-acquainted with denial — it pulses steadily in her veins like an old friend — but the clearest part of her mind can still recall his wide eyes in the faded light of the records room, disbelieving and enraptured. His heart pounding loudly, unabashedly, in the near silence of his kitchen.

(feeling giddy and guilty, she lets herself think that he might love her a little.)

“I’ve just let down the only person in the world who ever needed me,” she breathes, thinking of those golden curls, the shuddering and tiny tangle of limbs. “Poor guy.” She laughs a bit deliriously, tipping back the rest of the glass. 

“It’s easier that way, isn’t it?” Theseus rasps, eyes on the ceiling. “To think yourself broken. Newt’s the same way.” 

“Don’t say that,” she whispers, pangs of that unbearable, leftover sadness piercing through the haze. “He doesn’t deserve that.” 

Theseus echoes her shaky laugh, tucking the empty tumbler against his chin. “I believe he’d say the same about you,” he murmurs. With this, his eyes flutter shut, and Tina is left alone with their memories. 

And a lot of wine.

* * *

She eventually comes to, wincing as she unfurls her body from its cramped position on the armchair. She swipes a hand across her eyes, letting out a soft moan as her stomach lurches. Tina’s body has been weathered and beaten beyond all sense, but it didn’t usually stop for a drink (or five) on the way to hell or back.

It’s dark, but she notices her companion is gone from his usual spot, the imprint of his body still lingering on the saggy couch. After this registers, she senses a warm glow, some gentle tinkering, a rhythmic voice, low and smooth, drifting through the air.

It’s her ghost. Her stomach turns again for an entirely different reason, and her hands reach out to her face, desperately trying to cover her eyes and ears, trying to bring herself back to her senses. 

“Please, _ please _stop,” she pleads under her breath, but the voice becomes louder, the light brighter — 

Her head lifts slowly, dreading the apparition she so very longed to see. 

Instead, she feels something warm and sharp smelling pushed into her hands. 

“Dougal?”

The demiguise simply stares at her with that inexplicable discernment, gently pushing the cup towards her again until she fully grips it. He continues to stare at her until she takes a cautious sip and sighs in relief, the acidic notes in her gut starting to wane. Dougal lets out an approving croak and lopes toward the glow, which appears to be coming from the kitchen. She hears the scratch of a record, the cautious trickling of the sink.

No ghost.

After a few more sips, Tina pushes herself up and staggers toward the light, the joints of her body ceremoniously snapping back into use. “If you even think about asking me to drink with you again,” she begins, fully ready to set the record straight. “I’ll—” 

She had expected Theseus, equally as disheveled and nauseous and tired as she. Instead, it’s Newt at the small table, writing carefully in a small notebook. Papers are scattered around him (some on the table, some on the floor, some in Dougal’s mouth) and he has a cup of his own, cold and forgotten as he attends to his task. Newt, biting thoughtfully on his lower lip, holds out his hand as he continues to write. Dougal hands him one of the papers from his mouth.

It’s a sight so utterly and blessedly _ normal _that Tina could cry. 

Instead, she clears her throat, and his head jerks up. “Still the nocturnal life for you two?”

The look he gives her couldn’t quite be called caution, but it’s a close relative. “So says he,” New responds, tilting his head towards the demiguise. Dougal somehow elegantly spits out the remaining papers and disappears from view. Tina sees the bowls at the top of the kitchen cabinet shake slightly.

“Where’s Theseus?” she asks, wandering over to the sink. Dougal’s drink had helped the dizzy feeling but she feels completely parched.

“Ah — the case.” 

Tina gulps down a glass before responding. “Really?” She had come to know Theseus as someone who had a great deal of respect for his brother’s accomplishments, but preferred to stay away from his world of his creatures.

“I thought it’d do him some good. Better than another night on that couch.” 

“That’s probably true.” A silence falls between them, an uneasy sequel from the one days earlier.

Tina’s brain suddenly fully registers the crackling record, and she bites back her surprise. “Is this, uh, Celestina Warbeck?”

He nods. “I’m not the most devoted of fans,” he admits. “But Leta—” Newt pauses, and Tina senses before she hears him draw in a shaky breath, his eyes determinedly fixed downward. “Leta loved her very much. Although anyone who dare tell her that might prefer the wrath of a horntail.” 

An unexpected laugh escapes her lips, and it feels equally relieving as it does sacrilegious. A smile quirks at the edge of Newt’s mouth but his usually wide, inquisitive eyes are dull. His whole frame seems smaller, less eager and open and more of the tired, behind-the-desk man she could never see him becoming.

He’s been grieving, too, she remembers. For the girl whose picture he carried.

Tina drops down in the seat across from him. “I… I feel her, everywhere,” she murmurs. “It’s like my mind doesn’t know how to see the world without her. Like a ghost.” 

“Not a ghost,” Newt says, surprisingly firm. “We haven’t lost her. You won’t let it happen.”

“Haven’t I already?” Tina whispers. 

Newt shakes his head. “She lost herself. And you’ll be there to help her find it again.” 

He makes it sound so easy, but one glance at his hollow face indicates that he recognizes that it will be anything but. 

“I’ll help, too.”

It’s not an offer, it’s not a question. 

He’ll help, too.

Tina’s heart does the closest thing to a flutter in its weakened state, which makes the next thing she has to tell him all the more difficult.

She’s going home tomorrow. There are things she’s left behind: a Congress to report back to. A house to clean up. A Mrs. Esposito to pay. A man, well-intentioned but just beyond each other’s spheres, to let down (she’s relieved later that she kept this certain task to herself).

Newt nods silently in all the right places as she explains. Then asks, “When will I see you again?”

Tina wishes, for both of their sakes, that she had some sort of pretty dialogue for him — promises, declarations, prose. A dusty old daydream, caught in that ugly winter of misunderstanding, plucked out of her mind and played out before them. 

“I don’t know,” she says instead. She’d never been very good at pretending. 

Newt appraises her for a moment, and she sees a brief flash of his uncured sorrow — then he reaches out and grasps her hand in his own.

She instinctively squeezes his fingers, warm and calloused and strong. 

“I’ll miss you, Tina.”

It’s simple and too honest and causes the weight of the week that’d been quietly hovering to drop sharply on her shoulders. Nauseous from the wine and exhausted to her very core, she finally feels her eyes sting as she thinks of the upcoming days without Queenie. Without _ him_.

She, too, might love him a little.

(Maybe even a lot.)

_ I cut my hair because of you, _ she thinks. _ I cried until I couldn’t because of you. I ached for weeks because of you. I lost my best friend and I’m still floating, because of you. _She feels these words prickling at the tip of her tongue, begging to be released.

And yet grief pierces the air, cannot make room for the sort of declarations that lie tingling beneath their skin. Leta’s picture may no longer reside within this place but her spirit does, from Celestina’s warm crooning to Theseus’ infinite anguish to Newt’s unspoken, delicate memories. Queenie remains as well — perhaps not a ghost any longer but a destination, one that she would refuse to stray from until she found it for good. Her shiva was finished.

But there would be time, someday. There would be room.

(God, please give them time.)

Tina leans forward, tucking her head against his shoulder as she curls an arm across his back. She brings him close, as close as she’s wanted him since the day they first separated at the docks so many months ago. She releases this confession in the best way she can, whispered against the curve of his neck as he envelops her fully, his body trembling.

“I’ll miss you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! It's been a while since I've posted. I started this piece pretty soon after the release of COG, but I couldn't quite figure out how I wanted it to end... I spent hours agonizing over it and then suddenly finished it up in one night and felt satisfied. Go figure.
> 
> All of your comments and thoughts on my other two pieces have meant the world to me. I haven't been hit with the Fantastic Beasts inspiration stick for a hot second, but I definitely had (and will probably have) more to say about Tina and Newt and especially Tina, who is still a very dear character to me.
> 
> A sincere thank you to anyone who might still support my work. Like I said, it means so much.


End file.
